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The Ranji Trophy season was not a highlight reel. It was a six-month, double round-robin corporate grind, just as Coach Vijay Paul had promised. It was a blur of cramped bus rides, mediocre hotel daals, and a relentless, attritional war fought on sun-baked, heartless pitches across the South Zone.
For Siddanth, it was the ultimate test.
His debut 80 and 95* had bought him a permanent spot at number four, but it had also painted a massive target on his back. He was the "wunderkind," the prodigy. Every domestic veteran, every aspiring quick, wanted to be the one to break him.
The season became a brutal, repetitive cycle.
Against Goa, on a pitch so flat it could have been paved. He didn't play a single "innovative" shot. He batted for seven hours. He ground out a methodical, joyless 112, his second First-Class century.
The papers called it "mature"; his teammates called it "boring." Coach Paul, however, just nodded, a rare glint of approval in his eyes. This was the consistency he craved.
Then came the match against Punjab in Mohali. The pitch was green, the air was cold, and Coach Paul, with a strategist's foresight, decided to rest both Siddanth and Rayudu. "You're my thoroughbreds," he'd grunted. "I'm not breaking you on a minefield in a match that doesn't decide the table. Let the workhorses run."
Siddanth had hated it. He sat on the bench, wrapped in three sweaters, watching Hyderabad's batting crumble. His mind, the control freak, was screaming in frustration. The team limped to a draw, conceding the first-innings lead. He was useless from the sidelines.
The true test, the "bad day," came against Karnataka in Bangalore. It was a home game for them, and the Chinnaswamy wicket was a seaming, spitting cobra. The Karnataka attack was led by a young, hungry Vinay Kumar, who was bowling with genuine pace and venom.
In the first innings, Siddanth felt the pressure. He was the "savior." He tried to be. He walked in at 30 for 3. He saw the field, saw the gap over the slips, and, with the arrogance of his tried to ramp a 140kph bouncer on his third ball. He was too cold. He was too eager. The ball took the top edge, and the keeper completed a simple catch. He was out for 4.
He walked off to stunned silence.
In the second innings, with Hyderabad chasing a nominal 180 but on a minefield, he tried to be the "wall." He was 16 off 50 balls, grinding. Then, a ball from the pacer hit a crack and shot through at ankle height. A grubber. His bat was still on its downswing when the ball struck his pad. LBW.
Hyderabad lost the match by 40 runs.
The dressing room was a tomb. Coach Paul didn't yell. He just walked over to Siddanth, who was staring at his pads.
"Hype doesn't win on green tops, Deva," the coach said, his voice quiet, which was worse than shouting. "Your technique, your real technique, failed. That 154 against Kerala? That was a party. This... this is your job. You failed at your job."
The words were a physical blow. The 35-year-old mind, the one that had been fired from startups, knew the feeling. Failure. It was a cold, familiar iron in his gut. His templates weren't invincible. He wasn't invincible.
The loss galvanized him. The remaining matches against Tamil Nadu and Baroda were not about flash. They were about points. He played for the team. He ground out a 70 in one match, a quick 50 in another.
He and Rayudu, in a rare, unspoken truce, put on a 220-run partnership against Baroda, a display of such contrasting, brutal genius that the Baroda captain simply gave up.
It all came down to the final match of the double round-robin: the derby against Andhra, played on their home ground in Uppal. The equation was simple. A draw with a first-innings lead would put Hyderabad into the playoff semifinals.
Andhra batted first and, on another flat deck, posted 320.
When Siddanth walked in, Hyderabad was 120 for 3. He met Rayudu in the middle. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The playoff spot was on the line.
Rayudu was the aggressor, a ball of furious, controlled energy.
Siddanth was the calculator, the anchor. Their skills overlapped, creating a bubble of pure, unadulterated focus.
Rayudu smashed a fast, angry 110. Siddanth, at the other end, just ticked over. 60, 70, 80. He was on 95, with the last man in. They had the lead, but just barely. He needed to keep the strike. The final ball of the over, he pushed it to mid-off and called for a suicidal single.
He was run out by ten feet, sacrificing himself to protect the tail-ender.
He walked off to a standing ovation. His 95 had been the rock. Hyderabad had the first-innings lead. They had qualified for the Ranji Trophy playoffs.
On the bus ride back to their homes, the team was singing, but Siddanth was in his own world, his eyes closed. The season had been a success. He had shown flash, he had shown grit, and he had shown the consistency the coach demanded.
A triumphant, internal DING echoed in his mind, a sound far sweeter than the team's singing.
[Host has successfully completed the Ranji Trophy League Phase, demonstrating elite consistency, adaptability, and leadership under professional-grade pressure.]
[Performance against targets, management of "bad days," and securing playoff qualification has been logged.]
[Calculating Template Integration...]
[...Integration Complete.]
[TEMPLATE: AB de Villiers (80.0%)]
Siddanth felt a deep, profound click. The 70s had been about skill. 80% felt like mastery.
[MILESTONE REACHED (80.0%)]
[NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: "PREDATOR'S FOCUS (Lv. 2)" (Passive focus is now 50% enhanced. Active flow-state duration extended to 30 minutes per day.)]
[SKILL UPGRADE: "POWER HITTING (Lv. 2)" (Increased ability to clear boundaries from stable-base positions.)]
[REWARD ISSUED FOR COMPLETING 80% TEMPLATE: GOLDEN LOTTERY SPIN (1)]
Siddanth's heart hammered. A Golden spin. The Silver spin had been a game-changer. This... this was a new tier.
He activated it.
The interface that filled his vision was not bronze or silver. It was a massive, ornate, golden wheel, like the door to a vault. The slots were not just skills; they were names. Gods of their discipline.
Warne... Kallis... Akram... McGrath... Tendulkar (Elite)...
His mind did the math. My batting is 80% AB. I'm set. My bowling is B+ grade. It's a weakness. I need a bowler. Give me McGrath for accuracy. Give me Akram for swing.
"Come on," he whispered, his eyes shut. "Give me a bowler."
He willed the wheel to spin. It moved with a heavy, silent, powerful rotation. The names blurred.
Clack... Clack... Clack...
The sound was deep, like a vault tumbler falling into place.
It passed Shane Warne.
It passed Glenn McGrath.
It slowed, ticking agonizingly toward Wasim Akram.
Clack...
It passed Akram.
And it landed. With a final, definitive CLICK, on a name that represented pure, unadulterated, terrifying pace.
[TEMPLATE ACQUIRED: BRETT LEE]
Siddanth's eyes snapped open. He almost yelled. BRETT. F-ING. LEE. He hadn't just gotten a bowler. He'd gotten a rocket.
[Issuing Starter Integration for Golden-Tier Template...]
[Calculating Synergy with Host Vessel (A- Agility, A- Stamina)...]
[TEMPLATE INTEGRATION: 35.0%]
A 35% start. It was massive.
He didn't feel a tingle. He felt a jolt. It was as if a high-voltage cable had been plugged into his spine. A new, kinetic energy flooded his body. He felt a sudden, pliable strength in his back, his lats, his obliques—the "slingshot" muscles. He instinctively, unconsciously, knew the physics of 150kph.
[New Template Added to Status Page.]
[NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: "THE JAVELIN" (Passive, Lv. 1) (Grants +10% raw pace generation from core and shoulder rotation. Increases injury resistance to fast-bowling torque.)]
Siddanth let out a slow, shaky breath. He was a 17-year-old kid with 80% of AB de Villiers's batting genius and 35% of Brett Lee's raw pace.
He was, he realized, no longer just a prodigy. He was a weapon of mass destruction.
The playoff match was in two weeks.
---
His Ranji earnings were now substantial. The 2006-07 season hike was enormous, bumping a playing-XI member's daily fee to 35,000 rupees. For the seven matches he'd played, plus the daily allowances, he had cleared over 10 lakh rupees.
It was 2007. And he was sitting on a pile of cash, staring down the barrel of the single greatest financial catastrophe—and opportunity—of his lifetime. The September 2008 crash.
The Indian market was in a state of pure, irrational euphoria. The "India Story" was in full swing. The realty and infrastructure sectors were parabolic.
His plan was simple. Buy the bubble. Buy the stocks that were most absurdly, suicidally over-valued. Because he knew they had nine more months to run.
He went home to his father, who was reading the playoff qualifications in The Hindu.
"Nanna, I need to open a Demat account."
Vikram looked up, surprised. "A... Demat account? For what?"
"I'm investing my match fees."
Vikram smiled, proud. "Good. A wise move. We can put it in some blue-chips. L&T. Maybe some HDFC..."
"No," Siddanth said, his voice flat. "I want to invest in Unitech. And DLF."
Vikram's smile vanished. "Siddu, that's not investing. That's gambling. Those real estate stocks are a bubble. It's madness."
"I know," Siddanth said, meeting his father's gaze. "Nanna, I need you to trust me. Not as your 17-year-old son. As... a good investment. I've done the research. It's going to get bigger."
Vikram stared, baffled by his son's certainty. Shaking his head, he agreed to be the guardian on the account.
That evening, Siddanth sat at their home PC, the clunky desktop with its dial-up connection whirring. He logged into the new, basic trading portal. He transferred his entire 10-lakh savings. And he bought.
40% - Unitech: The darling of the realty boom, trading at its absolute peak.
40% - DLF: The other realty giant, which had IPO'd this very year.
10% - Larsen & Toubro (L&T): A "safer" infrastructure bet that he knew still had a 2x run left in it.
10% - TATA Motors: His one "thematic" bet. The TATA Nano was set to be unveiled in January 2008. The hype, he knew, would send the stock to the moon.
He clicked "Buy." His plan for generational wealth was now in motion.
(A/n: I don't know anything about investing, so don't mind this, just go with the flow)
He sat back. This was easy. Managing it while touring... that was the hard part. He couldn't be on the phone with a broker from a dressing room in England. He needed a proxy. He needed a brain he owned.
He needed Arjun.
He met his best friend at their usual café. Arjun, now 17, was buried under a pile of BBA textbooks.
"Dude! Playoffs!" Arjun yelled, his eyes bright. "And I saw the scorecard against Andhra, sacrificing yourself? Very dramatic. Very... 'captain-like'."
"It got the job done," Siddanth smiled, sipping his coffee. "Hey, what are you studying?"
"Microeconomics," Arjun groaned. "It's brutal. Why?"
"You still planning on that MBA? IIM-Ahmedabad, right?"
"That's the dream, man. Got to get the grades first. Why are you suddenly so interested in my grades?"
Siddanth leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Just... a thought. Study hard, Arri. Seriously. Especially... especially corporate finance and portfolio management."
"Uh... okay?" Arjun said, confused.
"I've got a feeling," Siddanth said, "that I'm going to have a lot of paperwork in a few years. A lot of... numbers. And I'll need a brain I can trust to handle it all. A brain that isn't mine."
Arjun looked at him, the dots slowly connecting. The seriousness. The talk of finance. "You... you're talking about... like, a job? For me?"
"I'm talking about a partnership," Siddanth corrected. "But you need the degree first. I need the best. So go be the best."
Arjun was speechless. He finally broke into a massive grin. "Right. So I do the math, you hit the sixes. I can live with that."
The Hyderabad team gathered at the Gymkhana nets a week before the semifinal against Mumbai. The mood was electric.
Siddanth felt... different. He was feeling balanced, light, and powerful. His 35% Brett Lee template made him feel dangerous.
He took a ball. He didn't go to the batting nets. He walked to the fast-bowling end.
Coach Paul was watching, as was Rayudu, who was padding up.
"Going to roll your arm over, Deva?" the coach called out, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Siddanth didn't answer. He marked his run-up. It was longer. More angled.
"Show us something, prodigy!" Rayudu yelled.
Siddanth stood at the top of his mark. He closed his eyes. He activated Predator's Focus. He activated "The Javelin."
He didn't just run. He exploded.
His approach was a blur of long-legged, kinetic energy. His action, which used to be a smooth, classical "seam-up," was gone. This was a slingshot. A violent, primal, beautiful rotation of the hips and shoulders, his arm whipping over at a ferocious, low angle.
The ball left his hand.
It wasn't 132kph. It wasn't 135kph.
It was a 148kph red streak.
The batsman, a senior opener, didn't even see it. He was still in his backlift.
The ball was a perfect, in-swinging yorker. It didn't just hit the stump. It detonated it, splitting the wooden stake clean in two, sending the top half cartwheeling past the wicketkeeper's ear.
The nets... stopped.
Every conversation. Every ball.
Silence.
The wicketkeeper, who hadn't even gotten his gloves up, was just staring at his stinging hands.
Rayudu, who was about to walk into the net, froze, his bat halfway in the air.
Coach Vijay Paul, clipboard in hand, just... dropped his pen.
Siddanth Deva, 17 years old, stood there, his chest heaving, the adrenaline of 35% Brett Lee roaring in his ears.
He looked over at his coach, his face a mask of calm.
"Playoffs look fun, Coach."